


A Little Night Music

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hand Jobs, Late at Night, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 05:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: Holmes has learned to let me sleep, even if he himself is determined to work on through the night. But he also knows he can wake me, should the situation turn dire.





	A Little Night Music

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by tweedisgood, "a little night music".

A late night does not intimidate me. Holmes and I are often obliged to work late into the evening, sometimes past midnight, and the work is what we live for. It is the combination of a late night and the threat of an early morning that makes me uneasy. Too many of those in a row and my usefulness to Holmes decreases. I am no longer quick on the draw, and my marksmanship wavers. My powers of observation, already inferior to his, are diminished. My mood declines significantly.

For these reasons, among others, Holmes has learned to let me sleep, even if he himself is determined to work on through the night. But he also knows he can wake me, should the situation turn dire.

Such was my expectation when he shook my shoulder, forty-nine hours into our investigation of the wayward hatter. I was roused from a light sleep on the settee in the sitting room at Baker Street. A glance at the clock on the mantle told me it was just gone three in the morning.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, sitting up. “Have you had any word?”

Holmes was looking very grave. He was in his shirtsleeves and his hair had been disarranged by several hours of running his hands through it as he worked through the problem. The only light came from the lamp at his desk.

“No,” he said. “I need to sleep.”

“Very well,” said I, disgruntled now that he had interrupted _my_ sleep to tell me this.

“I need your help. There are too many variables right now and I can’t stop thinking on them, but I need to rest before I get any more information.”

I blinked at him.

“I need you to–” he began, and cut himself off with an annoyed huff.

I began to smile.

“Don’t smirk like that, John Watson,” he chided, but I reached out for his wrist and tugged. He came easily, sinking down beside me. I pressed him back into the cushions and stretched out on top of him, as much as I could in the limited space. His legs cradled my hips, and my belly pressed against the soft bulge of his groin.

“I need a distraction,” he said into the top of my head. I wrapped my arms around him, my hands underneath his shoulder blades, and pressed my cheek to his chest. His heart was beating steadily, his ribs rising and falling as he breathed. Having confirmed his humanity, I picked my head up again and looked into his eyes. They were red with fatigue.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go straight to bed?” I asked. I wasn’t entirely certain rousing him to ardor was the most efficient use of our time.

“I need you to shut the engine down,” said he, cradling my face in his hands. “It’s racing.”

“All right,” I said, and bent to kiss him. His mouth looks sharp, like the rest of him, but in truth it is warm and soft, his lips gentle and his tongue eager. He sighed into my mouth and opened for me easily, as if relieved. I kissed him for a long few moments, relaxing into him, deciding how much and how vigorous he actually needed.

Not much, I thought. Just a little reset and a rest. He’d be in fighting form in the morning– when morning really came, not this ante-morning that didn’t count in real time– if only he could sleep.

He slid his long fingers into my hair and cradled my head as he returned my kisses, deeping them slowly as we warmed up to the idea. I felt him twitch against my belly, and made a little noise of appreciation into his mouth.

Holmes sighed and I broke the kiss to rub my moustache along the side of his jaw to make him squirm. Squirm he did. I pressed whiskery kisses to his neck and throat, working my way down the open collar of his shirt as he murmured. His fingers moved in my hair, caressing my scalp. He tipped his chin up to give me room, and I turned my attention to the buttons on his shirt. His collar was long gone. I parted the lapels of his shirt and pushed his vest up to expose his narrow chest with its dusting of dark hair, his soft, pink nipples.

He put his head back against the arm of the settee, breathing deeply through his nose as I rolled first one nipple between my fingers, then the other. His prick was fattening up between us, and it was almost as though I could feel his brain slowing, with something else very engaging to focus on.

I wasn’t immune either, and could feel blood thumping between my legs. I rocked my hips up, pushing our erections together; Holmes twitched, his back arching. He made an indistinct noise. He wasn’t a noisy lover, but he did show his appreciation for my efforts. I loved to draw small sounds of passion out of him. I rolled my hips again, relishing the friction; he moaned.

“Helping?” I asked. I kept my voice low, in deference to the hour.

“Immensely,” he said, grinning. His eyes were closed. I kissed his mouth again, dipping my tongue between his lips, and then sat back on my heel. One of my legs was folded under me; the other hung off the front of the settee as I faced Holmes, draped over the arm. He had his long legs spread on either side of my hips, and the placket of his trousers was stretched tight over his cockstand.

I put my hand over it. He sucked in a breath and the muscles in his thighs flexed. I gripped his prick through the fabric and rubbed, earning myself another squirm and whine. He had spread his arms, one along the back of the settee and one dangling over the edge, giving me easy access to his long body. He gripped the cushion beneath him as he rocked into the pressure of my hand.

I opened his trousers with my other hand, and drew him out through the gap in his drawers. His cock stood tall, the head still covered. The thick, rich smell of him made my mouth water. I hadn’t planned to gamahuche him, but there was no reason I shouldn’t. First things first.

Holmes groaned as I began to stroke him, my grip firm. As I worked his staff up and down, he began to leak over my fingers, slicking my way. My hand started to slide over his flesh, even though I kept my pace stately. He was breathing heavily, his eyes closed, the muscles in his abdomen and inner thighs tense.

Another time, I might have drawn the experience out, really teased and tempted him with the knife edge of glory. Instead, given that it was only a few hours until dawn and we had work to do, I knew it was my duty to bring him off quickly. I sat back, scooting out from beneath him, and bent my head to take the tip of his prick in my mouth.

He gasped, one hand coming down to land on the back of my head.

I pulled off. “If you push my head down even once–”

“I know, I know,” he grumbled, easing his grip. I stuck my tongue out and licked the sea-salt fluid from his slit, which made him jerk. He glared at me, his silver eyes narrowed, but his expression relaxed in the face of my winning grin. I opened my mouth again to take him in, sliding his hood away from his sensitive crown. He tasted bitter, too much tobacco and deep thought, but his noises were sweet and desperate.

My own cock throbbed, aching for attention. With one hand on Holmes, I loosened my buttons and let my prick poke out of my trousers. It hung heavy as I leaned over him, my bollocks full, and as I sucked Holmes I pictured our union when the case was over: naked and slick and open. I imagined opening him up on my fingers until he was begging, and then pressing myself inside his hot passage. I imagined sinking down onto his lap, pierced to the core. I couldn’t help stroking myself as I stoppered my mouth with his stiff offering, as his fingers carded through my hair.

I could feel him nearing his crisis; he was vocalizing on every exhale, and his body was beginning to shake. Then he pulled hard on my hair and his prick came out of my mouth with a slick pop.

I opened my eyes. He gazed back, his eyes glassy with desire.

“Come up here,” he said, hoarse as if he’d been the one with a cock down his throat. I licked my lips, slick and salty, and leaned up. He pulled me into a kiss that lacked finesse, but it made up for it by bringing our pricks into alignment and grinding us together. He licked messily at my mouth, tasting himself on my lips, and slipped his hand between us to wrap his fingers around us both.

“By Jove,” I muttered against his mouth, which made him laugh. He pressed his forehead to mine and stroked us both as well as he could, fingers stretched by the girth of our cocks together. I rocked my hips, unable to keep from fucking against him; he exhaled a moan, tensing all over, working his hand faster and faster.

Then he went stiff and still, his breath stuck in his throat. I felt the hot pulse of his emission against my shirt and my cock, and it set my own orgasm off at once. We groaned and panted together, making a mess of one another, and his still-slowly working fist drew it out to several long seconds of pleasure.

In the silence that followed, Holmes pressed kisses to my temple and held us both tenderly in his wet hand. I picked my head up off his shoulder to gaze down into his face, and he smiled sleepily at me.

“Thank you, Watson,” said he softly, brushing his fingers through my hair. “You always do come through for me.”

“Rather,” I agreed. I kissed him again and then, reluctantly, pulled myself upright. He had closed his eyes again and looked ready to sleep right there. I shook him. “Get up,” I ordered. “You’re sleeping in a bed tonight, so help me God.”

“Ugh,” he groaned, but he let me pull him off the settee. We stumbled to the bedroom and undressed with very little regard for where our clothes landed. Holmes even wiped himself clean with his shirt before discarding it. The lamp was still burning in the sitting room, so I made the monumental effort to go turn it out.

When I climbed into bed beside Holmes only a minute later, he was already asleep.


End file.
